The Choice
by corvusdraconis
Summary: AU, Crackfic: HG/SS: Hermione has come to a crossroads and finds she has a choice to make. M for brief, wince-worthy sentence. (COMPLETE)


**A/N**: A short!

**A/N:** No really, a short!

**A/N:** AU, Crackfic, yup.

**Beta Love:** Publishing unsupervised!

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**The Choice**

"_There are so many ways to be brave in this world. Sometimes bravery involves laying down your life for something bigger than yourself, or for someone else. Sometimes it involves giving up everything you have ever known, or everyone you have ever loved, for the sake of something greater." _

_Veronica Roth_

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I knew in that very moment— that small yet significant extension of arm and hand—that the choice I would make would decide the fate of my world. It was no less significant than the decision to fight in a war for a mass of people who often underestimated me, ridiculed me, or judged me for the pureness of my blood or lack of.

A thousand small touches had led to this point.

A thousand micro expressions had pushed us from loathing to companionship.

But his was a fragile trust so easily sabotaged by misunderstanding and presumption. Perhaps, it had always been so, and for that, I sympathised. It was not to say I always agreed. No, we seldom went a week without bumping heads about something.

He would stand there, seething silently, giving me the glare that told me I was so much a dunderheaded idiot.

I would stare right back, chin up in defiance, refusing to cow anymore to anyone's judgment, least of all his.

He would not apologise like a normal person, no. Sometimes he would make me one of his amazing cuppas or a meal I hadn't remembered to make for myself, and sometimes he would just sit nearby reading in silence.

Fortunately, I didn't mind silence or reading.

Sometimes, it was me that flew off the handle and reacted far too emotionally over something small and trivial. I would descend into book knowledge, and he would gesticulate wildly at me, twisting his face into scorn as he pointed at the book accusingly and then at my head as if neither of the two should ever meet in potions.

Harry would visit the apothecary from time to time on official Auror business. Aurors liked to get themselves injured more often than they cared to admit, and it was the potions brewed by Harry's long-hated potions teacher that brewed the best ones.

Respect for what the man did during the war had come begrudgingly, and Ron had done had a fit over Harry naming his son after both Albus Dumbledore and the "greasy git." He couldn't even say the man's name without popping a blood vessel.

Me having "turned traitor" and apprenticed with the odious man hadn't helped out our relationship either. He didn't use the word odious, though. There was more stammering and finger-pointing, red-faced emotional regurgitation—

Lovely, really.

"_Careful, Mr Weasley. You may lose a finger."_

Sometimes, I could hear his voice so clearly, even though he hadn't said a word since the end of the war. Not a peep. Not even in anger.

I'm sure he wanted to. I annoyed him like it was my job.

Still, he found my work "passable" which was perhaps the highest praise a man like him could give second only to the fact he hadn't murdered me in my sleep or while I was awake for that matter.

Dark wizard and all that.

If anything, his reputation for being the best potions brewer in the country if not all of Europe was the only thing that beat out the nervousness of just about every customer who had to see him face to face.

The scowl that could curdle milk—

It was a good thing we had an owl delivery service and a full catalogue thanks to yours truly.

Between our Orders of Merlin, we had enough to buy a prime place in Diagon Alley. It would have been cheaper to have gone with someplace like Hogsmeade or even rented, but the visibility and random exposure from being in Diagon Alley was far too lucrative, and Severus Snape was not going to pay "some blathering idiot" money each month and be told what he could or could not decorate with. Of course, I was thrust into the front of the store like a shield against accidental exposure to social interaction.

Gods forbid.

He made me wear black.

As an apprentice, I was forced into it, but I had to admit it had its benefits in brewing potions. Dragonhide boots didn't fizzle when potions blew up on it. We did do some experimental ones together, and sometimes one would just explode despite our best efforts.

He'd blame me. I'd tell him it was a team effort. He'd accuse me (non-verbally) of being insubordinate— et cetera, et cetera.

It's-not-an-apology tea would come after we cleaned things up and he made sure I wasn't damaged.

One time I had a severe scalding burn when one of his cauldrons blew. A wind had caused it from a customer opening a door. I had put on a strong face to attend the customer, lasting just long enough to pass out from the pain after said customer left with a case of Long Nights Wizard's Tonic (I'll let you figure out why that one is so popular, okay? Let's just say we were making a lot of money on it and leave it at that.)

I had woken up on the settee with Severus rubbing a balm over my scalded arm. I tried to get up, but his glare-of-perpetual-doom pinned me to the chair.

Damn him and his perfected glares.

He didn't need words to be understood. While those like Ronald Weasley stumbled over simple conjugation under stress, Severus could just cross his arms across his chest, narrow his eyes, and be understood.

True, the usual meaning was usually a fifty-fifty split between "idiot" "your emergency is not my emergency" in the potions business, anyway.

I think Ronald had expected me to abandon "greasy Snape" the moment my apprenticeship was over, and it was this assumption that had brought us to the current standoff at hand.

I stood between Ronald, who had thrust a hastily transfigured ring made out of a chicken wing bone (it still smelled of barbecue sauce, if you must know) onto my finger, and Severus who looked ready to commit dastardly deeds in the name of science.

I stared at the ring, which he had hurriedly thrust onto the wrong finger, and I saw glint of magic in it— the intent. I tried to get it off, but it was squeezing my finger tightly as if it wanted to fuse to my fingerbone.

I could feel the compulsion—

Have a good snog.

Get married.

Have a Quidditch team of children—oh, wouldn't that be wonderful!

I knew, in that moment, that if I didn't succumb, it would take my finger off. Even now, it was turning purple as the desire for Ronald Weasley rose in my belly as lust.

I knew it wasn't right.

I hadn't had any feelings for Ronald since the end of the war, save loyalty to a friendship we'd had since we were children. The crush I'd had on him had disappeared with my raging hormones.

All it would take was a kiss, and the pain would be gone.

I fought it.

Agony.

Severus stood frozen in place as his eyes cast from the ring to Ronald to me. I could see his jaw tighten. I could feel his fury, but in my own pain, I could not tell if it was the long-harboured loathing of Ronald, the disgust for the magic he had woven, or something else that fueled his darkened glare.

"Come on, 'mione. We're meant for each other."

Oh, how I hated being called 'mione.

Severus had put out his hand, and even in my pain, I saw his.

It was an offer, a promise.

He knew he was a righteous git; he knew he was far from looks of Gilderoy Lockhart whose very smile twinkled to the tune of Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star. But he was offering himself as an alternative to a lifetime bound to Ronald Weasley.

There would only be one offer. If I succumbed to the magic, he would probably buy off my half of the business and relocate—

He would disappear. Forever from my life.

He would not suffer the company of someone he had opened his heart to even in a desperate, unplanned moment, and been denied.

I realised at that moment that he had not suffered my company after our apprenticeship because of some desire to make up for his actions as both Death Eater and miserable teacher or even as a type of atonement. It wasn't some cold business transaction.

He cared for me.

He'd been saying it all along without words, and I'd been blinded in thinking it was just business, just getting along.

Severus Snape didn't just "get along" with anyone.

I winced as I reached out to put my hand in his, feeling the squeeze of the horrible ring around my middle finger.

I felt the need to kiss Ron and make it all go away.

It would all be fine if married Ron.

I looked into Severus' black eyes, my own filled with the pain even as I saw the depth of his gaze open to me.

_Is this what you want?_

_Am I— what you want?_

His mouth hovered over mine even as I heard Ron's cry of outrage.

"'Mione no!"

I bridged the gap as a flood of magic burst through the hidden dams, and I felt a hunger rise inside my belly as Severus' kiss deepened and our magic met like two opposing tides—

And merged.

I gave a groan of ecstasy as our magic blended and pushed all other influence out—

There was an audible pop, and we parted, breathless.

Severus' hand cupped my cheeks, and he silently pressed his forehead to mine.

**Crack.**

We were in front of Harry's desk at the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, and Severus's arm pulled me against him in a protective tug, tucking me against him and under his chin so all I could see was sharply cut by the black of his button-line.

Severus pulled a shimmering line of memories out, flicking them off his wand like they were filth into Harry's half-full coffee mug.

Severus' scowl was probably the only thing that kept Harry from thinking the worst of the dour wizard's timing.

As Harry pulled out the Auror Department's pensieve, two goblin silver rings floated down from a passing owl and slid onto our ring fingers as a parchment letter jubilantly announced our magical marriage with "great congratulations on doing our part to rebuild magical Britain."

When Harry pulled his head out of the pensieve, his expression was as grim as I'd ever seen it, save right before he made the decision to walk into the Forbidden Forest to his death.

"I'm sorry, Sir, Hermione," he said. "I'll take care of it. I promise."

As Harry moved to leave, Severus put a hand on his shoulder.

Severus' expression was grim, but he nodded to Harry. Something passed between them. Perhaps, at that moment, Harry was no longer James Potter the Second and the "evil potions master" was truly the hero Harry had been trying to convince himself Snape was rather than a phantom of his mum's and Albus' memory.

As Harry called a team together and they were about to depart, Harry pulled me into an embrace and whispered into my ear, "Congratulations, Hermione. I'll handle things with the Weasleys. Might have to crash on your couch once I deliver the news. I doubt Ginny will be all too happy with what I have to say about Ron— or what I have to do."

I squeezed his hand. "Thank you."

As Harry left, Severus' arms wrapped around me, pulling me close again, and I took a deep, deep breath of his scents: freshly mown grass, new parchment, spearmint toothpaste, and a deep resin-like musk that was so distinctly Severus.

I mentally face-palmed as I realised what I was smelling— my Amortentia.

I truly was a dunderhead.

I looked up at him, our eyes meeting, and I saw the dark look he was giving me that promised of long nights away from a cauldron with no need for the Long Night Wizard's Tonic. My belly tingled, and my breath caught as his fingertips traced my jaw and his mouth covered mine—

He swirled with me in his arms like a twirl of dance even as the crack of our Disapparition signalled our departure and the DMLE office became the dim inner-sanctum of Severus' immaculate, deep green, black, and silver bedchambers.

After a week of having sequestered ourselves together as we explored our new, consummated life together, I found out how a Dark Wizard deals with his adversaries: Harry had found Ron writhing on the ground clutching his severed bits where a certain magical constrictive ring had found its way from my finger to his cock.

There was no telling exactly whom Ron's compulsions were for that he found losing his bits the better alternative— Severus wasn't telling.

The Auror's office was wincing for months after that, and now witches have a new saying: don't get caught in Weasley's ring.

You never know what you might lose.

As Severus mouth on my neck made my entire body go limp and my leg practically pump simultaneously, I pulled him down back on the bed even as the latest apothecary order owls started to line up on the downstairs counters.

Testing in progress.

For science.

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**Fin.**

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**A/N**: Hope you enjoyed this short!


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